


Chicken and Dumplings

by Lysippe



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, big ol' fluffball, fluffy fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-17 14:02:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8146804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lysippe/pseuds/Lysippe
Summary: Erin doesn't celebrate her birthday. Holtzmann doesn't cook. Except when they do.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, like, this was going to be a chapter of Sensory Overload, and then it deviated wildly from anything that could even vaguely be interpreted as relevant to the theme, so I kind of just rolled with it and turned it into its own thing instead. I may leave it as a one-shot, I may not, I have no idea. Either way, though, it's the fluffiest fluff ever to fluff, so enjoy your digital-release-day fluff.

One day, Holtzmann finds out that Erin’s favorite food is chicken and dumplings. Coincidentally, that day happens to be the same day she finds out that it’s Erin’s birthday, and that she _doesn’t celebrate it with cake_ (Holtzmann can’t quite wrap her head around this, but Abby swears Erin doesn’t like cake). And with this information at hand, she gets a Brilliant Idea (in hindsight, and in foresight, everyone else strongly disagrees with this assessment).

One grocery run, precisely fourteen different ingredients (the recipe calls for seventeen), and one brand-spanking-new pot later (they have several large Pyrex bowls for storing and reheating leftovers, and a tea kettle which Patty absolutely forbids her from using for anything other than heating water to its boiling point – and not beyond – but only two small saucepans), Holtzmann sets up shop in the kitchen, her laptop balanced precariously atop an overcrowded counter, Food Network recipe at the ready.

And okay, in retrospect, she has never cooked anything more complicated than French toast (she burned it; apparently three minutes really means three minutes). And sure, she has no idea what turmeric tastes like, or why she would need it. And she is admittedly atrocious at following directions of any kind. But throwing ingredients in a pot and setting a timer can’t possibly be that hard. If she can (sort of) safely house a nuclear reactor atop a moving vehicle, she can definitely cook a stew. (She can’t.)

And _everyone present_ tries to dissuade her from her endeavor, but to no avail (except for Kevin, who just says, “Didn’t you accidentally flambé French toast a few months ago? Sounds good, though.” No one knows where Kevin learned about flambé, but they all assume it’s a great story about a bad incident).

Abby points out that their renter’s insurance doesn’t cover tenant-inflicted damages, which backfires when Holtzmann breezily informs her that if Abby trusts her with uncontained mercury (“Wait, you have _uncontained mercury_ in here?” “Not the point.”), she can definitely trust her with a bunch of potatoes and flavored water. (She doesn’t.)

Patty says something about the kitchen being directly below her library, and _“If you smoke up the room and set the damn fire alarms of againf,”_ (“Patty, darling, _we are in a firehouse_.” “ _Not an active one!”_ ), but nothing, not even the well-reasoned argument that a fire might well cause some sort of unrestrained chemical reaction in the lab, can deter her.

Because Holtzmann is determined, and she follows _every single instruction_ (mostly) to the word (except when she doesn’t want to), and it smells something like what Holtzmann thinks it should smell like (she’s never actually _had_ chicken and dumplings, but she’s had chicken, and she’s had dumplings, and it smells kind of like that, so she’s probably on something approximating the right track).

And then it explodes.

There is stew everywhere (Holtzmann wonders briefly if this is what Erin feels like when she gets slimed), and Abby is shouting and Patty is shouting and Kevin isn’t shouting but he _is_ blinking rapidly and tilting his head to the side and asking what flambé technique this is. And Erin…

Erin is standing in the doorway, and she’s glaring and muttering something that sounds like _“I just got home, just put one foot in the door, and everything explodes_ , _because of course it does,_ ” and of _all the possible people_ who could have walked in, Erin is so far past the bottom of the list, Holtzmann might legitimately have preferred Rowan’s ghost (did ghosts count as people, or did they get their own category? Was that discrimination?).

And then, out loud, she says, “Holtz, _what are you doing_?”

And all Holtzmann can say from underneath the rapidly thickening layer of chicken stock now coating her face is, “Happy birthday?”

And then Erin isn’t glaring anymore. Instead, she’s taking baby steps through the disaster zone that is the kitchen, trying in vain to avoid the minefield of smashed potatoes and splattered carrots on the floor, and she reaches for a rag but thinks better of it, running one hand through her hair and gingerly reaching over to turn off the still-burning stove with the other.

“What do you mean, happy birthday?”

Silence.

More silence.

“I was making chicken and dumplings?”

And maybe it’s her answer-not-answer, or maybe it’s her only-somewhat apologetic grin, or maybe, just maybe, Erin compulsive-neat-freak Gilbert (who hates explosions of all sizes and varieties) appreciates the gesture, but Erin cracks the slightest of smiles. (It’s just a gesture, of course it’s a gesture. Erin is her friend and friends celebrate each other’s accomplishments, and in their line of work managing to not get killed for another year is definitely an accomplishment, and Holtzmann is definitely not going to consider the fact that Patty’s birthday was three months ago, and Abby’s was in April, and she didn’t cook anything on either occasion, because that’s not the point.)

And Holtzmann is pretty sure this means she’s not about to be murdered, which is good (although Erin has a long smear of wet flour on the sleeve of her MIT sweatshirt, and that’s an unpleasant discovery Holtzmann wouldn’t mind missing).

“Oh, my _god_ ,” Erin says, finally. “Holtzmann, you set _French toast_ on _fire_.”

(Holtzmann really wishes that people would stop bringing that up. She sets her lab on fire all the time, and no one doubts her capabilities as an engineer.)

“I wasn’t making French toast,” Holtzmann says, as though that is an obvious defense. “I was making chicken and dumplings.”

“Because it’s my birthday.”

“Because it’s your birthday.” She pauses for a minute. “And because Abby said you don’t like cake. _Who doesn’t like cake?_ ”

“Me?”

“You’re a monster, Erin Gilbert. Only a monster could not like cake. And since you don’t like cake, and cake is one of the only things I can make, I had to make chicken and dumplings.”

And then Erin is laughing – doubled over, hands-on-her-knees, deep-belly laughing – and Holtzmann is confused, but also grateful because Erin still isn’t killing her, and Erin laughing at her isn’t exactly her ideal situation, but again, she’s not dead, so there’s that.

And all of a sudden, Erin’s arms are around her waist and her head is buried in Holtzmann’s sternum, and Holtzmann is almost worried that Erin is having some kind of fit, because normal-Erin would never willingly hug someone who had just been standing at ground zero of a potato explosion.

But then, amidst continued laughter, Erin gasps out something that is only audible because Holtzmann’s head is three inches from hers: “Thank you.”

And still, Holtzmann is resoundingly confused, because she’s pretty sure Erin didn’t _want_ the kitchen blown up, so there’s no reason to thank her, and yet here she is, and here Erin is, and she’s pretty sure Erin just thanked her for doing just that.

“Thanks for trying,” Erin repeats. “You didn’t have to.”

Holtzmann shrugs, suddenly feeling awkward and on the spot and uncharacteristically sheepish, and the last time she let herself feel that way was the first day of eighth grade when the only other girl in her honors math class told her she liked her glasses, and she’ll probably think twice before trying to cook again (and then do it anyway) if it’s going to end with this feeling, because she doesn’t like it. “Seemed like the thing to do at the time,” she says, going for a levity she doesn’t feel at all.

“No, seriously,” Erin says. “ _Thank you_.”

And it’s so genuine and sincere and heartfelt that Holtzmann stops breathing.

“But next time, we’ll just go to a restaurant.”

And Holtzmann grins, teeth flashing and eyes twinkling, and says, “It’s a date.”

And Erin stares her dead in the eye, nose wrinkled and a crooked half-smile tugging at one side of her mouth, and says two words that will ring in Holtzmann’s head for hours afterward: “Sure is.”

And later, when Abby is staring incredulously at their ruined kitchen, she informs Holtzmann that she, and only she, could manage to blow up the kitchen on Erin’s birthday, and not only _not die_ , but get a thank-you for her troubles.

But Holtzmann isn’t going to think about that, either.


End file.
